Gravity of Your Name

Gravity of Your Name

Your name crosses a room

and objects adjust.

--

The mug leans a little in its ring,

the calendar sways on its pin,

coins reconsider the edge of the bowl.

Even the mirror takes a breath.

--

I try to say it slowly—

like carrying a brimming glass

from sink to table—

so nothing spills,

So everything arrives.

--

Some names are neon;

yours is a steady star—

not loud, but constant,

teaching every loose thing

how to fall toward it.

--

At the curb, I measure distance

with bus schedules and streetlights,

pretending I don’t feel

The tide is climbing my wrist

twice nightly.

--

If I add up the letters, I get weight.

If I exhale them, I get weather.

In both equations, I am the small orbit—

keys, wallet, your last message—

mundane moons around a pull I can’t name

without naming you.

--

I have tried escape velocity:

long walks, blank notebooks,

a window that opens to nothing but sky.

Still, constellations rearrange

into the old instruction: come back.

--

So I negotiate with physics.

I give the day a center

that isn’t you: a kettle, a task,

My own spine is a learning to be planet.

--

And when I speak to you now,

It isn’t surrender.

It’s acknowledging the field,

bowing to what is true—

then choosing, gently,

which body I become.